


As Reckless A Courage (As Deep An Abyss)

by RayShippouUchiha



Category: Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Angst With A Bittersweet Ending, Angst and Feels, Angst with a Happy Ending, Avengers: Endgame (Movie) Spoilers, Bittersweet, Bittersweet Ending, Canon-Typical Violence, Comic Book Reasoning, Comic Book Science, Dark, Death, Emotional Hurt, Emotional Manipulation, Heavy Angst, Hurt, I Got Canon Drunk And Stole Its Identity, M/M, Mental Breakdown, Mental Instability, Murder-Suicide, Past Pepper Potts/Tony Stark, Post-Avengers: Infinity War Part 1 (Movie), Resurrection, Suicide, Things Go Sideways Quick, Time Loop, Time Travel, Tony Stark Dies, Tony Stark Doesn't Stay Dead
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-02
Updated: 2019-07-10
Packaged: 2020-04-06 11:07:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 13,086
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19061401
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RayShippouUchiha/pseuds/RayShippouUchiha
Summary: “Tony,” Strange’s hands are gentle for all that they shake incessantly when they cup his face.When Tony blinks through the pain and focuses on him the look in Strange’s eyes is once more some curious mix of awe andheartbreak.And yet again it makes dread settle low and heavy in the pit of Tony’s stomach.An ache that not even the stab wound can compare to.“I’m sorry,” Strange whispers to him, forehead coming down to press against Tony’s own with a sort of unexpected intimacy that makes Tony go still.  “I am so so sorry, Tony.”





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> It's me, ya girl, back at it again with my regular brand of bullshit.
> 
> So buckle up darlings this one is gonna be a bit _wild _.__

There is, Tony can’t help but notice, something _different_ about Strange when he comes out of his dive into time.

Tony can’t quite put his finger on _what_ it is, exactly, but he knows that _something_ has shifted in him.

Knows that swimming through the time streams has changed the man somehow.

Despite not knowing him well, Tony can see the difference as plain as day in the way that Strange looks at him now.

There’s a softness, a _light_ , in his eyes that wasn’t there before.

A … _reverence_ of sorts in the way he reaches up to touch Tony’s face for a split second, Eye of Agamotto pulsing around his neck and Tony’s cheek cupped in one shaking palm.

Tony isn’t sure _why_ Strange looks at him like that.

Can’t wrap his head around they way Strange touches him oh so softly, like his fingertips are both frightened of and yet hungry for Tony’s skin.

Like, somehow, Tony might burn him, might scorch him down to the _soul_ , if he presses too close.

And yet, like he’s caught in some kind of gravitational pull or like Icarus before him, Strange seems unable to resist the temptation of flinging himself towards the bright burn of Tony’s sun.

It’s unsettling and it doesn’t make sense, the shift in Strange’s attitude towards him.

People, especially people he’s only heard of in passing and only really known for a handful of hours, are never _soft_ with Tony.

Gentleness has never had much of a place in Tony’s life, not in the ways or places it might actually matter.

And, Tony can’t help but think, no one has _ever_ touched him with something that smacks so closely to this shaky sort of reverence he feels at the press of Strange’s trembling hands.

All of it raises so many questions, far more questions than Tony has the answers to.

Plus there’s just something about all of this that forces Tony to bite back a shiver and something cold and uneasy slides down his spine.

But Tony doesn’t say anything.

Doesn’t bother to call Strange out on whatever this is.

They don’t have time to really discuss it now after all.

They have a Mad Titan to stop and a universe to save.

If they live through this there’ll be time enough afterwards for Tony to ask about whatever it is that’s shaken Strange to such a degree.

But first ...

~~~

Later, _much later_ , Tony will ask himself if it would have made a difference.

If, maybe, taking the time to ask Strange more about what he’d seen would have changed anything.

If, maybe, Tony had been better informed he could have stopped so much of what was to come from happening.

If there was another path he could have taken.

Another path he could have convinced Strange to take.

If only he’d _known_.

There are a lot of _ifs_.

~~~

The truth is this:

It wouldn’t have.

He couldn’t have.

_This was always the way it was going to be._

And Tony, as he always seems to be with secrets such as these, was just the last to know.

~~~

“Wait,” Strange’s voice, ragged with exhaustion, cuts through the air around them.

In his hand the Time Stone glows.

Surprisingly enough, or perhaps not, Thanos stops.

Tony, knees pressed against the rocky soil and blood in his mouth, just blinks and does his best to focus.

Because what he’s seeing, what he’s hearing, it can’t be real.

It _can’t_ be.

Strange wouldn’t.

Strange _swore_.

Strange would _never_.

~~~

Strange does.

_Goddamn him._

Strange _does_.

~~~

“Why would you do that?”  Tony can’t wrap his head around what’s just happened even as Strange pushes himself up off of the rubble and moves across the distance between them.

He drops to his knees right in front of Tony a few seconds later.

“Tony,” Strange’s hands are gentle for all that they shake incessantly when they cup his face.

When Tony blinks through the pain and focuses on him the look in Strange’s eyes is once more some curious mix of awe and _heartbreak_.

And yet again it makes dread settle low and heavy in the pit of Tony’s stomach.

An ache that not even the stab wound can compare to.

“ _I’m sorry_ ,” Strange whispers to him, forehead coming down to press against Tony’s own with a sort of unexpected intimacy that makes Tony go still.  “I am so so sorry, Tony.”

“Strange?” Tony manages to rasp, confusion and worry swirling inside of him.

“You’ll forgive me,” Strange tells him, eyes bright with tears as he stares into Tony’s own.  “It’s selfish of me to focus on that but you will. Not at first, not for … not for a very long time, but you will forgive me.  You always do, even though I don’t deserve it. Because that’s who you are. _That’s_ the kind of man you’ve always been.”

The smile Strange gives him is small, shaky, and practically dripping with grief and what Tony could almost swear was …

“There is so much _light_ inside of you, Tony.”  Strange rasps then, recapturing Tony’s attention with ease.  “And it is stronger than any darkness you might find. Don’t you ever forget that.   _Please_.  No matter what happens.  No matter what you see. No matter what … no matter what you _do_.”

Tony stares up at him, heavy dread blossoming fully into a sick sort of foreboding fear.

“What,” Tony has to pause to swallow past the dryness in his throat, “what’re you talking about, Doc?  You’re sounding a little too _deathbed confessional_ for my tastes here.  Besides, I’m the one with the gut wound, not you.”

“Promise me,” Strange demands then, completely ignoring his question.  “Promise me you’ll remember?”

“I-Okay?”  Tony stares up at him, torn between mystified and terrified and soul deep exhausted.  “I ... promise?”

It comes out more like a question than an actual promise but it seems to satisfy Strange all the same.

For a long moment there’s only silence between them, the others shuffling around in the background.

Tony doesn’t focus on them.

 _Can’t_.

Not with the way Strange is breathing heartbreak and grief all over him for some reason.

Not with the way Strange kisses him, lips soft and chapped but tender as he brushes them across Tony’s own.

Strange smells like blood and sweat and some kind of tea.

Spice and the underlying petrichor scent of _power_.

_His kiss feels like weeping._

“You’ll forgive me,” Strange repeats again even as he presses close and kisses Tony again.  For a split second Tony thinks he glows a golden, fiery orange, but he shakes the thought off as Strange steps back and away from him.  “You’ll understand why and you’ll forgive me like I already forgive you. Because, in the end, we’ll both know it was necessary. But I … I will _never_ forgive myself.”

Tony has no idea what Strange is talking about.

Has no idea why Strange had kissed him like that.

Why it had felt holy, almost reverent.

Like psalm and prayer and lamentation all in one.

Like Judas at the table.

A part of Tony is sure that he doesn’t want to.

But he can’t think of anything that Strange could do to him that would warrant this kind of raw _grief_ in a man he’s only known for a handful of hours.

The type of hurt and betrayal Strange seems to expect Tony to experience normally takes years and secrets of the worst sorts to accomplish.

Strange and him don’t have that sort of history together.

Or, if things don’t somehow change, that kind of future.

~~~

Later, much later, Tony will remember this moment and forgiveness will be the last thing he’ll ever feel capable of giving to Strange.

Not after this.

Not after what Strange has done to him.

Not after what Tony has been forced to _see_.

Not after what Tony has been driven to _do_ as a result.

But …

That will all be for later.

~~~

This is the truth that Stephen Strange does not tell him but that Tony has always known regardless:

Fate is often too cruel to those She’s chosen.

And Tony’s shoulders have long been shaped to carry the weight of a burden he never wanted to hold.

Icarus in all but name, his fondest dream has always been to soar.

Atlas in all but title, Tony’s true fate has always been to _carry_.

~~~

It only takes seven words to bring Tony’s entire existence crashing down around him.

“Mr. Stark,” Peter’s voice sounds so young and _small_ , “I don’t feel so good.”

In the end he feels even smaller in Tony’s arms.

Seven words, Tony will think in a frozen sort of hysteria during odd moments scattered throughout what is still yet to come.

Seven words to rip him completely apart in ways that the rest of the universe has been trying to do for decades now.

Seven words.

And a boy.

~~~

Tony is tired of watching almost sons slip through his fingers like stardust.

Is tired of being an almost father to echoes and _ash_.

There is no name for would be fathers who outlive their almost sons.

No one word or title could ever encompass so much raw and rending grief.

But that doesn’t stop Tony from tasting it, thick and heavy and coppery like blood, on the back of his tongue.

~~~

Later he’ll look back on that thought and he’ll laugh _and laugh and laugh_.

He’ll laugh until he feels madness creep ever closer.

Until insanity presses even further in around the edges of his fractured soul.

Because he never could have known.

No one could.

~~~

Strange did.

_Goddamn him._

Strange _did_.

~~~

Blood soaking his front and horror eating away at the inside of him, Tony watches as half of the universe is unmade.

In the end he’s left alone on Titan with only the blue skinned woman, the _cyborg_ , he comes to know as Nebula.

Alone with a stranger at his side, the blood of half of the universe on his hands, and Strange’s voice in his ears.

Tony doesn’t scream or cry.

Doesn’t allow the howling, weeping, _raging_ thing hiding behind his clenched teeth to claw its way out.

He knows better.

Because this is the truth of the matter:

If he starts now Tony knows he’ll never stop.

~~~

Eventually Nebula gets him up, gets him on his feet, and half drags, half carries him into the half wrecked ship.

Drained, Tony slips in and out of consciousness as they go, pain arcing through him like whips of lightning.

Tony breathes through it like he always has, pushes past it the best he can after decades of long practice.

“Sleep,” Nebula tells him, a yawning void of grief and rage staring back at him from her eyes.  “You need to heal if we’re going to hunt Thanos down and kill him.”

Tony nods and lets her lay him on a bunk.

~~~

The fever comes a few days after that.

~~~

Time passes in a haze of pain and grief and _heat_.

Of dreams and visions and hallucinations.

Of the cave becoming the wormhole becoming Ultron’s gaping maw becoming the bunker becoming the dead sands of Titan.

Of everyone and everything he’s ever known clawing at him, ripping at him, asking him why he didn’t do more.

Why he didn’t save them all.

Tony tries to fight his way past them, out of the fiery depths of the hell-scape he’s found himself in.

But they’re so _strong_ , this amalgamation of all of Tony’s nightmares.  They’re so strong and they’re tangled around him like anchor chains determined to pull him ever downwards into a sandy, frostbitten sea of stars.

Into that place that exists only in the in between and in the depths of his worst fears.

And Tony is so _tired_ that he isn’t sure he has the strength to wrest himself free.

All he wants to do is rest.

~~~

But then, when has Tony ever gotten what he really wants?

~~~

“ _Live_ ,” Nebula rasps the order into his ear, hands surprisingly gentle as she changes his bandages.  “You can’t help me kill Thanos if you’re dead, Stark. You can’t avenge anyone if you don’t _live_.”

~~~

 _Oh_.

Oh if only she’d known.

~~~

When Tony reaches out and latches a hand around her wrist, fever eating at his mind until clarity only comes in those snatched moments between breaths, Nebula doesn’t shake him off.

Instead she shifts until she can wrap her fingers around his wrist in turn.

Over and over again she lets him grab at her.

Over and over again she grabs him back.

And then she sits there with him for the longest time.

~~~

By the time the fever breaks Tony _loves_ Nebula with a fierce and sudden sort of devotion.

Trapped with her, here at the end of all things, the only two people in their entire corner of space, she makes up so much of what’s left of his world now.

So, not unlike how he had during his fever, Tony latches onto her with both hands and what’s left of his heart.

He pulls her as close as she’ll let him and then pulls her closer still.

And if the awkward sort of gentleness, the gruff and quiet sort of care with which she treats him is anything to go by, Tony thinks the feeling might be mutual.

~~~

Together they channel their grief and their rage into repairs and plans and pretending like there might, somehow, be something left for them out there in the stars.

Like there might be a way to undo all of this.

Like they might actually be able to find the solution Strange had promised exists somewhere out in the middle of all of the countless worlds.

Neither of them seem willing to mention how far from their favor the odds really are.

Instead they just cling to each other tighter and tighter with every passing day.

~~~

Despite all of the repairs they make the ship’s air supply is going to go quickly.

But the food will go quicker.

Tony knows they’re both railing against the inevitable coming of the long night.

But he doesn’t have it in him to stop.

Not yet.

Not when she’s here with him.

Nebula.

His murderous blue star of a woman.

A glimmer of hope he never thought to find out here in the dead reaches of space.

~~~

In between sleeping and working on the ship to try and drain every last ounce of life out of it, Tony helps Nebula make repairs on herself.

Seeing what’s been done to her, hearing her speak, voice low and harsh and yet still so _wounded_ , about how each change had come about, sets Tony’s soul alight with rage.

So he does the only thing he can do at the moment.

He slices slivers of the armor away, hardens the nanobots into a solid form and uses them to patch and upgrade parts of her as best he can.

He takes his protection, the shield and sword he made to protect all that he loves, and he makes it hers instead.

Weaves pieces of himself into and around her so that, no matter what happens, a part of him will always be there for her.

And then, every time he’s too exhausted to do anything else, he sits down across from her at the table and teaches Nebula all the games and silly little kid amusements he can remember.

All of the things Tony remembers Rhodey teaching him back when he’d been fourteen and wide eyed at MIT.

A bit of softness here at the end of the world.

~~~

Once upon a time Tony stood on a stage and gave a speech about legacy.

This, the armor and the repairs, the slipping Nebula extra bits of food when her back is turned?

Teaching her games and stories and showing her every bit of softness he can scrounge up?

The sheer rage he feels for her suffering and the heartbreak that gnaws at him for her lose and pain?

This is all he has to give to Nebula at the moment.

This is his legacy to her.

It’s battered and small but it’s burning and true all the same.

~~~

With the exception of the cave and the countdown to the palladium rotting him from the inside out, twenty two days had never seemed like too great a length of time to Tony before.

But now, slowly starving to death, time stretching out with a syrupy sort of pace to it that makes everything and nothing feel real all at the same time, Tony thinks he knows what eternity might feel like.

~~~

He doesn’t.

Not yet.

But he will.

_Oh God he will._

~~~

“Rest,” Nebula whispers in his ear, hands gentle as she places him in the captain’s chair.

They both know this has been coming for some time now.

That the fever had taken too much out of him.

Too much that they’d had neither the food nor the time to replace.

With no rescue or safe harbor in sight they’d both known that this was always the way it was going to end for him.

Tony’s crumbling around the edges no matter how hard he fights to stay together.

No matter how hard he fights to stay with her, to not leave her alone out here among the stars, to have the chance to take her with him back to Earth to see who and what might be left there.

None of that matters.

Tony’s a clock winding down, a cracked hourglass spilling time and sand around his base.

“I will find him,” Nebula whispers then, like a vow given in the holy silence of a garden.  “I will find him and I will kill him. For her. For them. For _you_.”

Tony hopes so.

If only because that means she won’t die here.

On this ship.

In the middle of this star ocean.

Like him.

~~~

Like thread unspooling, like gears crumbling into sand, Tony closes his eyes and is _unmade_.

~~~

A warm light for all mankind finally extinguished.

Bowed shoulders finally allowed to set their burden down.

It should have been a relief.

It should have been an _ending_.

Except …

~~~

Tony comes back into existence on the dead sands of Titan.

Between one breath and the next Tony respools back into himself.

When he looks up all he sees is Thanos staring down at him.

And when he looks down all Tony sees is his own knife in his gut.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heads up! We are earning that rating and those tags in this chapter as the going gets real rough. So keep that in mind going forward!

At first, for a desperate sort of split second, Tony thinks it was all a dream.

Some trauma induced nightmare that happened in those spaces between breaths.

Chest shuddering with breaths Tony’s sure he’s already taken, mouth welling up with blood he knows he’s already tasted, Tony hopes and _prays_ that it was.

Because it _can’t_ be anything else.

No matter what the memories he shouldn’t, couldn’t, actually have whisper to him.

No matter how different this feels from any dream he’s ever had.

It feels to real to be a dream.

Even with the way his mind makes his dreams almost painfully vivid at times this, _that_ , whatever it is that he’d seen or lived and now remembers, feels too ... _much_ to be a dream.

Even now it feels too sharp and stark and _present_.

Instead of a dream it feels like some kind of a _vision_ sent from on high.

Even as Thanos pulls back from him, even as that huge, heavy hand presses down against him, Tony pushes that thought away as viciously as he can.

He’s been burned by a so called _vision_ once before, scarlet seeping in around the edges, turning everything ruby tinted and _vicious_.

Here, bleeding out on the sands of a dead alien world, Tony refuses to go that route ever again.

~~~

Looking back all Tony will be able to do is shake his head at his own naivety.

He could have never known that, moving forward, he would have a hand in so many things that he’d never thought would come to pass.

Wonders and horrors that not even he would have ever thought himself capable of.

~~~

Strange knew.

_Goddamn him._

Strange _knew_.

~~~

“You’ll forgive me,” Strange says, an echo of a declaration that Tony’s already heard once before.

But …

Tony doesn’t want to believe what he’s seeing is true.

Can’t.

 _Won’t_.

Because that would mean …

~~~

“Mr. Stark,” Peter’s voice sounds so young and _small_.  “I don’t feel so good.”

_Oh God._

Please.

 _No_.

Not him.

_Not again._

~~~

Between one breath and the next, half the universe unspools.

And, just like in his vision, twenty-two days later, Tony is unmade with it.

~~~

And yet...

~~~

Tony respools on the dead sands of Titan with Thanos hovering over him and a knife in his gut.

He stumbles backwards, his hands coming up to press against his chest as he tries to breathe even as he can’t seem to stop _shaking_.

Because that didn’t just happen.

None of that was _real_.

It wasn’t.

_It can’t be._

But it doesn’t matter because Tony can’t breathe.

He can’t _breathe_ and he’s _bleeding_ and and _and_...

~~~

Half of the universe unspools.

Quaking and gasping on the dead sands of an alien planet, Tony unspools with it.

~~~

“You’ll forgive me,” Strange says.

Bile rises high and thick in the back of Tony’s throat.

Because ...

Tony knows what comes next.

~~~

 _Please_.

Don’t.

_Tony can’t do this again._

~~~

“Mr. Stark,” Peter’s voice sounds so young and _small_.  “I don’t feel so good.”

~~~

This time, fingers buried in the rocky soil of Titan where the boy used to be, blood pouring from the wound he hasn’t bothered to seal, Tony can’t keep it pinned in any longer.

So Tony does the only thing he can in this moment.

He curls in on himself and takes a single sharp, shuddering breath.

And then he screams and screams and _screams_.

~~~

This time, Tony finds, the end is almost a relief.

~~~

_Tony respools._

~~~

Tony can barely look at Peter without seeing him dissolve in his arms.

And yet he can’t stand to look away for too long for the exact same reason.

Peter seems both worried and almost happy with all of the extra attention.

Tony vows that, no matter what happens, he’s going to hold onto this kid as tightly as he can.

He’s going to protect Peter with everything he has in him.

~~~

“Mr. Stark,” Peter voice sounds so young and _small_.  “I don’t feel so good.”

~~~

Time, it seems, will always do its best to make a liar out of him.

~~~

This time Tony doesn’t bother to fight the fever that takes him.

Instead he just latches on to Nebula’s hand and lets the nightmares take him.

~~~

_Tony respools._

~~~

Rhodey had a friend in the Rangers who always had this saying:

Once is an accident.  Twice is a coincidence.

And three times?

Three times is a _pattern_.

Besides, Tony has always been so very good at spotting those.

~~~

Sprawled out on the dead sands of Titan, Peter at his side and Strange in the distance, Tony can no longer deny the truth of what he’s been experiencing.

His life’s become some sort of Groundhog Day knock off, only with less Bill Murray and more _End of Days_.

This time Tony doesn’t bother to get up.

Doesn’t bother to do what he’s always done before in the past and push himself up onto his feet.

Instead he reaches down for the hilt of the blade in his stomach.

He takes it in one shaking hand and _twists_.

Eyes wide, chest heaving, Tony lays back and lets the stars take him.

~~~

_Tony respools._

~~~

“What’ve you done to me?”  Tony rasps, bloody fingers wrapped around the collar of Strange’s tunic.  The question has been itching at the back of his tongue for seconds and far too long now all at the same time.  “ _What the fuck have you done_?”

“I’m sorry,” Strange whispers, tears and determination welling up in his eyes.  “It was the only way, Tony, but I’m still so sorry.”

In the background he can faintly hear Peter begging him to let Strange go, to _please sit down_ , begging him to stop because _‘you’re bleeding real bad Mr. Stark.’_

“I don’t forgive you,” Tony snarls viciously, desperately.  “Fix this or tell me what to do or _I’ll never forgive you_.”

And Strange, goddamn him to hell, just _smiles_.

~~~

Between one breath and the next, half the universe is unmade.

‘ _Huh_ ,’ Tony thinks, half numb and mind hazy, as he once again stares down at the spot where Peter used to be.

And then, a repulsor pressed against his temple, Tony closes his eyes, sighs, and unspools with it.

~~~

And _yet_ …

~~~

_Tony respools._

~~~

Staring up at the alien sky above him Tony takes a moment to just breathe.

A moment to process everything he’s just confirmed to himself.

Now he knows exactly what Strange was apologizing for.

Because, for some reason, somehow, Tony can’t seem to die.

At least, not in any way that actually matters.

And Tony’s completely sure that he can trace the entire thing back to _Strange_.

Strange and his magic and his trek through time and the sad, shaken reverence in his kiss.

Strange and the way he’d looked so devastated when he’d said there was only one future in which they _win_.

Just the one.

And then he’d said that _this_ , whatever it is that he’s done to Tony, was the only way.

All in all Tony’s pretty sure that’s bullshit.

The law of numbers says there has to be more than one possibility out there in which they stop Thanos.

Odds say that there has to be more than one path to victory and that not all of them involve Tony being trapped in some kind of fucked up time loop.

Especially a time loop that doesn’t actually give him the time or the resources needed to _actually fix things_.

So, in the end, the real question is this:

What, _exactly_ , is Strange’s definition of victory?

~~~

When it comes down to it Tony is, above all else and at the very core of himself, a _scientist_.

So when he’s presented with such a unique issue as the one he’s currently facing there’s only one thing for him to do.

Or, at least, there’s only one thing to do once he manages to piece himself together enough to think clearly again.

 _Experiment_.

~~~

It only takes a few dozen runs for Tony to get the basic parameters of what seems to be his new normal down with a satisfying degree of certainty.

And this is what he concludes in the end:

If he dies at any point or in any way, he wakes up back on Titan with that knife in his gut.

But if he makes it off of the plant then he will, inevitably, die on that ship with Nebula.

They’re too far out in the middle of nowhere without enough resources to let the both of them push through despite the way Tony’s already learned so much about the tech space offers.

 _So_.

This is what Strange has given him to work with:

One hour in what’s technically his past and then twenty-two days into the future.

That’s also, technically, his past.

That’s it.

That’s his entire window of opportunity.

So the pivot point, the moment or events he needs to alter, the pieces he needs to shift, the equations he needs to solve, have to exist somewhere in between those two moments.

All Tony has to do is find them.

And when he does Tony’s sure that he’ll be able to find that one path to Strange’s version of victory.

And then, hopefully, all of this will be over.

~~~

Hope, Tony has always known, can be one of the strongest, most resilient forces of all.

Hope had gotten him out of the cave, had pressed him forward through the palladium poisoning and helped him claw his way back up from the pitch black pit of despair that was Ultron and the loss of JARVIS.

Hope had given him the strength to crawl his way out of that bunker in Siberia.

Far too often _hope_ has been all that’s stood between Tony and the stark darkness of the void.

~~~

Hope, Tony will relearn in slow, _agonizing_ , stops and starts, has always been a thing with feathers.

And here, in this time and place that ends and never ends all at the same time, there are chains lashed around his limbs that will keep him from following it into the sky.

But, again, that’s for later.

Sooner, perhaps, than one would think.

But still …

 _Later_.

~~~

Tony makes a list in his head of things to do, of changes to make within his limited sphere of influence.

And then, with a deep breath and an iron hard resolve, he starts ticking them off one by one.

~~~

Tony lunges towards Thanos as he opens the portal.

In this life Tony lives just long enough to see the confused horror on Steve and the other’s faces before Thanos’ hand wraps around his neck.

~~~

_Tony respools._

~~~

Tony lunges towards the portal.

“ _Kill him_!” Tony bellows as soon as they emerge out the other end.

But …

Too late.

~~~

_Tony respools._

~~~

There’s a portal.

Tony lunges.

 _“Destroy the Stones_.”

This time a rush of familiar scarlet answers him.

~~~

_Tony respools._

~~~

There’s a portal.

Tony lunges.

Thanos catches him with one huge hand and _squeezes_.

~~~

_Tony respools._

~~~

There’s a portal.

Tony lunges.

_“Run!”_

He’s not sure what, exactly, gets him this time but the glint of gold he sees barreling towards his unprotected face out the corner of his eye gives him a few options.

~~~

_Tony respools._

~~~

There’s a portal.

Tony lunges.

This time he tries to run, tries to make it off the battlefield so that maybe, just maybe, he can get some distance.

So that maybe he can find an outside force to help him fix this.

Thanos catches him, his focus singular and absolute.

It ends quickly after that.

But not _cleanly_.

~~~

_Tony respools._

~~~

There’s a portal.

Tony lunges.

Over and over again.

Sometimes he screams.

Sometimes he fights.

Sometimes he tries to run.

Sometimes he does a mix of all three.

Over and over again.

None of it is _ever_ enough.

~~~

_Tony is never enough._

~~~

T̴o̷n̶y̴ ̷r̷e̴s̵p̵o̵o̵l̴s̷.̵

~~~

Tony’s almost grateful that every failed attempt ends the way it does.

Especially the ones where he dies early on, in that hour before half of all that there is gets unmade around him.

He’s almost grateful that it ends with him unspooling into darkness and then respooling onto a dead planet between one breath and the next.

At least those attempts, that kind of stop gap, is better than watching what inevitably comes next.

Better than watching, helpless, as Peter slips through his fingers.

Better than a slow, _wasting_ , death on the ship that he’s grown to love and hate in equal measure.

Better than being forced to watch Nebula whither away beside him bit by bit even as all of her cybernetics guarantee her more time.

Dying quick and often times painfully is better than that, better than lingering and seeing what happens to everything.

Better than being trapped in his cave in the stars, unable to build his way out.

Because, somehow, that ending always feels so much _worse_.

~~~

Tony fails and fails and fails again.

But he’s got his hope and his one underlying guiding principle steering him as he gets back up over and over and over again.

Because the truth of the matter is this:

There’s too much riding on this, on him and this hellish little gamble Strange has forced him into.

Too many lives.

Half of all existence in the universe.

Worlds and people Tony has never seen, has never met.

Entire races that he knows, down to a one, all deserve _better_.

And there’s everyone he left behind on Earth.

His family, as patchwork as it may be, that may or may not be alive and waiting for him on the other side of all of this.

There’s Nebula and the aching hatred and the angry, desperate, vulnerability that lingers in everything she does.

And then there’s ...

 _Peter_.

And he alone is more than enough to motivate Tony to keep going.

Over and over again.

So, in the end, if one of Tony’s plans fail, well then ...

He’ll just have to try harder next time.

~~~

And there _will_ be a next time.

Tony is beginning to suspect that there will _always_ be a next time for him.

Or at least, Tony thinks with no small amount of bitterness and grief, there will be millions upon _millions_ of possible next times for him.

Tony’s done the math and he knows _exactly_ how many _next times_ he might have to look forward to if this goes the way he thinks it might.

And, like with so many other things in Tony’s life, that knowledge is both a blessing and a curse.

Because it means he has time.

Time to think and plan and work.

Time to find the right path and follow it through to the end.

But …

Time, Tony also knows, will be the true death of him.

 _Well_.

For the given value that death holds for Tony now.

~~~

It goes like this:

Half the universe is unmade.

And Tony is, sooner or later, unmade with it.

But not for long.

Never for long.

Instead …

~~~

_T̴̰̺͘͝o̷̟̝̒n̶̼͆ý̴͚̘̕ ̷̛̳͔̏r̴̰̹̉̔e̶̮͆̋ş̷̿̔p̷̩̲͒ŏ̸̦̲o̷͉̊l̶̦̠͌s̶̢̪̋.̶̨̞̿̈́_

~~~

Tony thinks about Pepper each time his eyes slip closed.

For the first dozen, two dozen, hundred, thousand times.

He dreams about her every single time he drifts off.

Thinks about what they could have had, what they’d been building.

Thinks about how she deserves so much more than all of _this_.

Thinks that, even if he does figure this out, even if he does make it out the other end, it won’t matter.

Not when it comes to the two of them.

Because he’ll never be able to go back to being the person she fell in love with.

Will never be the man who fell in love with her.

Or the person that love had helped him grow into in the years that followed.

Not again.

Not after all of this.

Not after all that’s still sure to come.

Because, in the end, if this all works out then it’s likely that little to no time will have passed for her.

But for Tony?

Tony will have tasted the sharp edge of infinity.

Will have lived it and breathed it.

Will have had it wrapped around his heart and his soul as he held it close.

Will have swayed with it like a lover in the dark.

And, here at the end of all things and nothing, that’s not something he thinks he’ll be able to come back from.

Not really.

Not in a way that’ll matter where he and Pepper are concerned.

Not with the way he can feel himself changing, bits and pieces of him being shifted, twisted, or chipped away with each repeat.

Tony’s not sure who or _what_ he’ll be at the end of all of this but he knows that Pepper will always deserve _more_.

And she’ll never be happy with whatever Tony will have left of himself to give to her when, or if, he finally makes it back.

A part of Tony even thinks that he wouldn't want her to be.

~~~

Staring out into the sea of stars on the other side of the Benatar’s glass a part of Tony thinks he might hate the entirety of all existence.

Just a little bit.

Being Iron Man, striving for peace and safety for Earth, has always been the best thing he's ever done.

He's always regretted the road he had to take to get there but he's never regretted the outcome.

Has never regretted making the armor.

But for just a moment, in just this instance, he can't help but resent it all just a little bit.

Because ...

Why can’t they save themselves?

Why does he have to be the one to suffer, to _sacrifice_ , over and over again.

_Why is it always him?_

~~~

_T̷̤͗o̶̡͖̩͉̰̦̅̾ñ̷͜y̸̧͚̝͑̉̊̇̉ ̸̗̙͓͖̟̮͑r̶̡̥̞̮̘͝ę̶̰͍̉̍̓̂s̸͇̝̟̹̎̕͜͜p̵̡̟͔͓̦̤̈̇̓ö̴͇̫̣o̴̰͉̮̩̭͚͂̈́͊̌̐͠l̶̢̛̞̰͓̈͆̕͠ͅs̶̫̖̪̈͛͑̒̈́̈́.̶̨̩̟́͝_

~~~

“I hate you,” Tony tells Strange blankly.

He’s covered in sand and blood and can’t find it in him to care about either anymore.

He’s too busy mourning the death of all the dreams he’d been building with Pepper.

The death of the future he’d thought might finally be within his reach.

That and all of the death that is still yet to come.

_Again._

_Always._

A seemingly never ending cycle for all that Tony’s run the numbers.

“I know,” Strange says as softly as he always does just as he begins to flake around the edges.  “But not as much as I’ll always hate myself.”

Tony just scoffs.

And then he turns and meets Peter’s stumbled step forward with open arms.

Because even now, after all this time and yet no time at all, Tony will never have it in him to let that boy fall.

~~~

T̵̡̪̖͊ơ̵̰̓̌n̴̪̰̝͒̄̾̄́̕y̸̧̠̦̩͎͐͠ ̷͕̫̞͋͒͂͌͝ṛ̸̬̞̺͚e̷̛͖̽̅̽͝s̴̬͈̊̔͑̄̕p̵͕̼̗͖͆̌̽͂̈́̚o̸̪͙͙̰͕͉̔̂̆̍̕ơ̵̢̢̖̦͌̓͠l̴̤͂̍͛̾̂s̴̲̺͚̜̥̲̎̆͗.̴̹̹̻͋͌͐͒̈

~~~

It had taken him a few cycles to learn the Benatar inside and out but Tony did it.

Of course he did.

How could he not with so much time and so many paths to travel stretched out in front of him?

Add a battered ship filled with technology unlike anything he’s ever seen re-spawning with him each time and it was a foregone conclusion as to what Tony would do about that.

He’d practically taken the ship apart a section at a time over various spurts of twenty-two days.

Now he knows the Benatar with an intimacy and thoroughness to detail that he’s only spared for a handful of other things in his life.

The armor.

JARVIS’ code.

The curve of Rhodey’s smile.

The freckles that sit like a constellation low on Pepper’s back.

He could assemble and disassemble the Benatar with his eyes closed.

He knows he could.

He’s done it.

But, no matter what else happens, the best thing about the ship will always be the woman on it with him.

Because, no matter the way his mind has begun to spit and spark, Tony is careful to always, _always_ , do all he can to show Nebula as much softness as he can.

It's less than she deserves but all that he can give.

Some cycles it works better than others.

But he always tries.

And, well, at this point that’s all Tony can really do.

~~~

Looking back Tony thinks that, maybe, that was where it all really started to go even more sideways.

Like maybe the delirium and the scorched fear of the fever he couldn’t always avoid lingered a bit more each time.

Like maybe it followed along behind him, fire tipped claws sunk deep into his brain as he tripped the light fantastic across the boundaries of life and death and time itself.

All to the tune of Strange’s voice.

~~~

The truth, Tony knows, is something a little more like this:

Everyone and everything has its fracture point.

A thing can only bend or twist or fold so many times before it finally breaks or frays or rips at the seams.

It was always going to be only a matter of time before something _broke_.

Before Tony broke.

Even _iron_ rusts and wears down eventually.

And, in all of the ways that matter and in all of the ones that never seem to, Tony has always been more man than machine.

~~~

It starts, or perhaps a part of it ends, like this:

Snarling, mind a ruined haze, Tony lunges towards Thanos, blood running in unchecked rivulets down the front of the armor around the knife still in his gut.

He barely hears the way Peter screams his name in the distance.

He’s too focused on the way Thanos rears back, the knife in his hand ripping its way out of Tony’s gut as he goes.

“Stark,” Thanos sneers, that sickening sort of false benevolence heavy in his tone, “accept your fate and know _peace_.”

“ _Fuck you_ ,” Tony spits, the taste of blood thick and coppery in his mouth, as Thanos raises the knife high above his unprotected head.

Tony knows what comes next of course.

And he also knows that it doesn’t matter.

Not really.

His death comes cheaply these days.

This won’t be any different.

Except …

“ _Mr. Stark_!”

There’s a flash of silver and red.

“ _No!_ ” Tony screams the denial, all helpless rage and already blooming devastation.

Thanos’ arm comes down with brutal driving force, the _nanobot knife_ clenched tightly in his hand.

Tony stumbles forward, a hand raised and repulsor ready to fire.

_Too late._

Peter makes a little hurt, punched out sound as best he can through his ruined throat as Thanos rips the knife to the side and _out_.

Peter collapses forwards.

But Tony catches him long before he hits the ground.

“Hey, hey, hey,” Tony whispers as he lowers them both down, one hand coming up to clasp uselessly at the wound.  “Hey, buddy, it’s gonna be okay. Alright kid? You … you heal _fast_ so it’s gonna be okay.  I promise.”

They both know he’s lying.

But Peter still smiles at him, teeth and mouth stained red as he does.

“Your son was brave, Stark,” Thanos says, “like my daughter.  What I’m doing will make a better universe, for all of the other sons and daughters out there.”

Tony ignores him, doesn’t even look up this time when Thanos opens the portal and leaves.

Instead, sitting there on the sands of a dead planet, their blood mixing together in the dirt beneath them, Tony just pulls Peter’s closer.

He feels so _small_ and _young_ in Tony's arms.

And the medical sealant gel Tony packs in the suit isn’t going to be enough.

Tony knows that long before he shifts Peter’s weight in his lap enough to bring his hand up into position.

But he still tries.

It’s _Peter_.

Of course he still tries.

But in this, as in so many other things, Tony _fails_.

~~~

There’s a roaring in Tony’s ears.

The crashing of the waves of a celestial desert sea overtaking his mind.

Drowning him in salt and sand and starlight.

In rending, drowning, grief and sun hot _rage_.

And some part of him, some part of whatever it is that makes up the deepest, truest parts of who he is, takes a sharp step _sideways_.

~~~

“You’ll forgive me,” Strange rasps.  “But I will always be so so sorry.”

“No,” Tony tells him calmly, mind a cluster of bright, fragmented shards, and his bare hands tight around Strange’s throat, “I won’t.”

Tony’s hands _clench_.

Strange doesn’t bother to fight him.

_Goddamn him._

_~~~_

Afterwards, Peter’s blood still cooling on his hands, Tony thinks, in an absent sort of way, that he might hate Strange just a little bit more for that alone.

And then, a palm pressed against his temple, Tony doesn’t think anything at all.

~~~

 

T̶̢͔̘͎͎̫̲̙͈̤̀͒̉̽̿̎̃̾̔̓͆̽̅̂͘͘o̵͔͊̈́̅̀̕͝n̸͚͈͖̣̫͕̫̈y̶̡̭̝͓̹͋͑̿ͅ ̷̢̬̞̫͓̈́̑r̵͚̩̞̩͔̜̪̲̪͎͈͍̖͉̮͗̽͌̅͐̑̌͝͠͠͝ͅe̷̢̡͈̰̭̹̝͉͎̟̖̻̗̣̳͌̄̔͑̈́̈́̚͜ṡ̶̛̛̼͓͕͉̙̳̎̏̈̽͊p̴̡̧͕̜̹͂̚͜ơ̶̛̥̰̳̔̅̏̐͋̊ȯ̶̤̗̝̳̺̗̭̫͎̥̪͜ļ̷̛̣͈͍̖̗̤̓͒̔́̄͂̈́͒̕̕͜͝͠͝ͅş̵̘̖̜̺̖̩͉̙̬͖̮̊̒̑͘.̵̛̙͙̰̬̪̂͗̒̕̚͠

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _I did what I did ___


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yeah yeah yeah, not a word about the chapter count damn it all.
> 
> Also, remember the tags.

Killing Strange doesn’t make anything better.

But then Tony didn’t honestly expect it to.

That was _never_ what it was about.

Instead, in the end, all it really does is make Tony feel sick and sharp inside.

Makes his chest and his head feel jagged edged and too _bright_ all at the same time.

Like he’s been split open down to the very core and had molten sunlight and ragged cold poured across the heart of him.

But even then …

He still does it.

Over and over again.

~~~

And yet, each time, Strange doesn't bother to fight him.

~~~

 

T̵̢̪̗͝͝o̸̮̜̰̯͛̅͐̂̾̕ņ̷̧̰̠̺̫̹̃́̈̏̆̿̑̋̿y̴̡̨̧̢͔͎͔̰̝̯̻̗̻̭͗͊̈ ̷̨͎̳̬̄̄̓̔̐͝r̸̛̜̲̟͙̤̺̖̠̬̥̤̤͌͊̀̽̓̏̊͋e̷̯̮̣͎͇̙͕̯͂̊̐̿͜ṡ̴̡̛̛̻̖̫̭̪̻̹̭̠̪̳́̃̏͊̓̂̋͛̕͘͜͜͝p̴͓͍͙̜̟͓̳͍̹̗̜͍͌̓͝o̴̧̖̜̫͔͔̓̒͑̄̅͌̌͂̅̾̓͜ö̶̭͚̺́̓͛͗̉̂̈l̵̡̙̹̳̥̮̞͇̽̓͒͋͗̏̒̏͌͘̚ͅͅs̸̯̰̠̝̩͎͔̖͂.̷͙͍̪͖̭̱̪͚̜̿͆̿͐͝

 

~~~

It might seem like Tony’s version of revenge, the way he turns his rage and grief on Strange.

It might seem like he’s trying to make Strange pay in turn for the lives and the deaths, the agony and the _fracturing_ , he’d forced upon Tony.

But that’s not it.

Not really.

This, this fresh devastation and long familiar agony that Tony can’t seem to escape?

It transcends something as _mundane_ as revenge.

Instead all Tony killing Strange will ever really be about …

Is _hurt_.

~~~

“It’s okay,” Strange tells him, one trembling hand coming up to cup Tony’s cheek as the other curls shaking fingers around his shoulder.

“It’s not,” Tony doesn’t bother to blink the tears away this time.

Tears barely even register for him these days.

Haven’t now for years and _years_.

Instead he holds Strange’s eyes with his own and twists the knife with a brutal jerk, his blood mixing with Strange’s as he presses it deeper.

Tony knows that he’s bleeding to death yet again.

But that doesn’t matter.

All he’s focused on is taking Strange with him.

Not that that actually matters either.

None of it does.

Because, in the end, it’ll all be undone again.

Erased.

Like it never happened at all.

For everyone and everything but him.

Instead Tony will simply be _respooled_.

Knotted chord forced back on to a spindle it no longer truly fits.

And, like with so much that has already come to pass, the only one who’ll remember any of this is Tony.

 _Well_.

Him and Strange too of course.

Strange who _knew_.

Strange who _saw_.

Strange who had still pressed Tony down beneath the surface of the waters of time with an apology and hands that _shook_.

So Strange will remember too.

Because he knew before Tony did.

Because he’d set this wheel in motion.

So maybe that does matter.

Just a little.

~~~

It matters more than Tony wants to admit.

In time it will matter more than almost anything else.

~~~

Somewhere along the way Tony slips into a desperate sort of insanity.

Or maybe that's not the best way to describe it.

Maybe the truth is that Tony doesn't go mad so much as he finally slows down long enough for the madness that's been nipping at his heels since the first time he tasted blood at four to finally catch up with him.

Maybe this too was always inevitable.

Either way the point is this:

Tony looks into the abyss for far too long.

And, in the end, he only sees himself staring back from the shadows.

~~~

There are a lot of old sayings about love and hate being two sides of the same coin.

About there only being a thin line separating the two.

About how easy it is for one to transition into the other.

The question is this:

Can you really love someone and hate them in equal measure?

~~~

The answer is this:

Tony will.

 _Oh God_.

Tony _will_.

~~~

It goes like this:

Strange told him once, all the way back at the beginning, that Tony would forgive him.

Tony hasn’t.

Not yet.

But he knows that, one day, one _life_ , he will.

It’s inevitable.

Tony can’t hold onto this hatred for forever.

Like a burning coal, like a piece of molten steel, he’ll have to drop it eventually.

He doesn’t have the energy, or the desire if he’s being honest, to grasp it close for the rest of his eternity.

Because, like it or not, Strange is his one port in this storm.

His one harbor and touch stone.

No matter what happens, no matter how many times Tony stops and restarts, unspools and respools, Strange is always _there_.

Physically and, far more importantly, _mentally_.

Because unlike the others Strange also _knows_.

Strange is the one who keeps Tony from being completely lost to the abyss that is time itself.

It’s hard to hate him even if he is the one who did this to Tony in the first place.

~~~

But that’s for later.

For now Tony still has just enough energy for _this_ …

~~~

“I’ve watched him _die_ ,” Tony rasps, lips pressed against the shell of Strange’s ear.  “I’ve watched all of them die. _Over and over again_.”

“I know,” Strange’s nails bite into the back of Tony’s neck, a flicker of pain that doesn’t even register.

Tony is numb to such things now.

Even pain stops having a meaning eventually.

At least the physical does.

Now even dying seems to take longer and longer each time.

But when it comes to every other way that pain can register, Tony thinks that all he does now is _hurt_.

“I hate you for making me see this,” Tony admits.  “For making me _do_ this.  For not giving me the _choice_.”

In the background Peter screams at him, pulls at his shoulders, begs Tony to _stop_.

But Tony can’t.

Not even for Peter.

Not yet.

This sick and twisted sort of communion between him and Strange is as close to absolution, as close to a panacea for the poison swirling in his soul, that Tony has managed to find.

“I’m sorry Tony,” Strange’s voice is weaker now, wet sounding from what Tony knows is the blood flooding his mouth.

Tony knows exactly what he’s feeling in this moment.

He’s lived and died with it enough times by now.

“I don’t want your apologies,” Tony tells him because it’s the best truth he can find at the moment.  “ _I just want this to be over_.”

~~~

 

T̵̢̪̗͝͝o̸̮̜̰̯͛̅͐̂̾̕ņ̷̧̰̠̺̫̹̃́̈̏̆̿̑̋̿y̴̡̨̧̢͔͎͔̰̝̯̻̗̻̭͗͊̈ ̷̨͎̳̬̄̄̓̔̐͝r̸̛̜̲̟͙̤̺̖̠̬̥̤̤͌͊̀̽̓̏̊͋e̷̯̮̣͎͇̙͕̯͂̊̐̿͜ṡ̴̡̛̛̻̖̫̭̪̻̹̭̠̪̳́̃̏͊̓̂̋͛̕͘͜͜͝p̴͓͍͙̜̟͓̳͍̹̗̜͍͌̓͝o̴̧̖̜̫͔͔̓̒͑̄̅͌̌͂̅̾̓͜ö̶̭͚̺́̓͛͗̉̂̈l̵̡̙̹̳̥̮̞͇̽̓͒͋͗̏̒̏͌͘̚ͅͅs̸̯̰̠̝̩͎͔̖͂.̷͙͍̪͖̭̱̪͚̜̿͆̿͐͝

 

~~~

 

T̵̢̪̗͝͝o̸̮̜̰̯͛̅͐̂̾̕ņ̷̧̰̠̺̫̹̃́̈̏̆̿̑̋̿y̴̡̨̧̢͔͎͔̰̝̯̻̗̻̭͗͊̈ ̷̨͎̳̬̄̄̓̔̐͝r̸̛̜̲̟͙̤̺̖̠̬̥̤̤͌͊̀̽̓̏̊͋e̷̯̮̣͎͇̙͕̯͂̊̐̿͜ṡ̴̡̛̛̻̖̫̭̪̻̹̭̠̪̳́̃̏͊̓̂̋͛̕͘͜͜͝p̴͓͍͙̜̟͓̳͍̹̗̜͍͌̓͝o̴̧̖̜̫͔͔̓̒͑̄̅͌̌͂̅̾̓͜ö̶̭͚̺́̓͛͗̉̂̈l̵̡̙̹̳̥̮̞͇̽̓͒͋͗̏̒̏͌͘̚ͅͅs̸̯̰̠̝̩͎͔̖͂.̷͙͍̪͖̭̱̪͚̜̿͆̿͐͝

 

~~~

 

T̵̢̪̗͝͝o̸̮̜̰̯͛̅͐̂̾̕ņ̷̧̰̠̺̫̹̃́̈̏̆̿̑̋̿y̴̡̨̧̢͔͎͔̰̝̯̻̗̻̭͗͊̈ ̷̨͎̳̬̄̄̓̔̐͝r̸̛̜̲̟͙̤̺̖̠̬̥̤̤͌͊̀̽̓̏̊͋e̷̯̮̣͎͇̙͕̯͂̊̐̿͜ṡ̴̡̛̛̻̖̫̭̪̻̹̭̠̪̳́̃̏͊̓̂̋͛̕͘͜͜͝p̴͓͍͙̜̟͓̳͍̹̗̜͍͌̓͝o̴̧̖̜̫͔͔̓̒͑̄̅͌̌͂̅̾̓͜ö̶̭͚̺́̓͛͗̉̂̈l̵̡̙̹̳̥̮̞͇̽̓͒͋͗̏̒̏͌͘̚ͅͅs̸̯̰̠̝̩͎͔̖͂.̷͙͍̪͖̭̱̪͚̜̿͆̿͐͝

 

~~~

“I’m tired of killing you,” Tony tells Strange hours and days and _years_ later.

He’s lost count of how many times he’s tried and failed to change things.

How many times he’s unspooled and then been forcefully reconstructed.

“I know,” Strange tells him softly, lips turn upwards in a sad, blood slick smile.  “And yet … here we are …”

“Yeah,” Tony agrees, hands wet yet again with both of their blood, “here we are.”

~~~

That’s a lie of course.

The part about losing count.

Tony knows _exactly_ how many times it has been.

He remembers each and every one of them.

~~~

 

_T̵̢̪̗͝͝o̸̮̜̰̯͛̅͐̂̾̕ņ̷̧̰̠̺̫̹̃́̈̏̆̿̑̋̿y̴̡̨̧̢͔͎͔̰̝̯̻̗̻̭͗͊̈ ̷̨͎̳̬̄̄̓̔̐͝r̸̛̜̲̟͙̤̺̖̠̬̥̤̤͌͊̀̽̓̏̊͋e̷̯̮̣͎͇̙͕̯͂̊̐̿͜ṡ̴̡̛̛̻̖̫̭̪̻̹̭̠̪̳́̃̏͊̓̂̋͛̕͘͜͜͝p̴͓͍͙̜̟͓̳͍̹̗̜͍͌̓͝o̴̧̖̜̫͔͔̓̒͑̄̅͌̌͂̅̾̓͜ö̶̭͚̺́̓͛͗̉̂̈l̵̡̙̹̳̥̮̞͇̽̓͒͋͗̏̒̏͌͘̚ͅͅs̸̯̰̠̝̩͎͔̖͂.̷͙͍̪͖̭̱̪͚̜̿͆̿͐͝_

 

~~~

 

_T̵̢̪̗͝͝o̸̮̜̰̯͛̅͐̂̾̕ņ̷̧̰̠̺̫̹̃́̈̏̆̿̑̋̿y̴̡̨̧̢͔͎͔̰̝̯̻̗̻̭͗͊̈ ̷̨͎̳̬̄̄̓̔̐͝r̸̛̜̲̟͙̤̺̖̠̬̥̤̤͌͊̀̽̓̏̊͋e̷̯̮̣͎͇̙͕̯͂̊̐̿͜ṡ̴̡̛̛̻̖̫̭̪̻̹̭̠̪̳́̃̏͊̓̂̋͛̕͘͜͜͝p̴͓͍͙̜̟͓̳͍̹̗̜͍͌̓͝o̴̧̖̜̫͔͔̓̒͑̄̅͌̌͂̅̾̓͜ö̶̭͚̺́̓͛͗̉̂̈l̵̡̙̹̳̥̮̞͇̽̓͒͋͗̏̒̏͌͘̚ͅͅs̸̯̰̠̝̩͎͔̖͂.̷͙͍̪͖̭̱̪͚̜̿͆̿͐͝_

 

~~~

In the times to come Tony will find himself faced with another impossible question:

How do you fall in love with someone who damned you to a seemingly infinite hell?

The answer, Tony comes to find, is this:

Like an avalanche.

Or a forest fire.

Or a star going supernova.

Or the slick slide down into a fiery kind of madness.

You fall in love with people like that, just like this:

Slowly, and then all at once.

~~~

 

_T̵̢̪̗͝͝o̸̮̜̰̯͛̅͐̂̾̕ņ̷̧̰̠̺̫̹̃́̈̏̆̿̑̋̿y̴̡̨̧̢͔͎͔̰̝̯̻̗̻̭͗͊̈ ̷̨͎̳̬̄̄̓̔̐͝r̸̛̜̲̟͙̤̺̖̠̬̥̤̤͌͊̀̽̓̏̊͋e̷̯̮̣͎͇̙͕̯͂̊̐̿͜ṡ̴̡̛̛̻̖̫̭̪̻̹̭̠̪̳́̃̏͊̓̂̋͛̕͘͜͜͝p̴͓͍͙̜̟͓̳͍̹̗̜͍͌̓͝o̴̧̖̜̫͔͔̓̒͑̄̅͌̌͂̅̾̓͜ö̶̭͚̺́̓͛͗̉̂̈l̵̡̙̹̳̥̮̞͇̽̓͒͋͗̏̒̏͌͘̚ͅͅs̸̯̰̠̝̩͎͔̖͂.̷͙͍̪͖̭̱̪͚̜̿͆̿͐͝_

 

~~~

 

_T̵̢̪̗͝͝o̸̮̜̰̯͛̅͐̂̾̕ņ̷̧̰̠̺̫̹̃́̈̏̆̿̑̋̿y̴̡̨̧̢͔͎͔̰̝̯̻̗̻̭͗͊̈ ̷̨͎̳̬̄̄̓̔̐͝r̸̛̜̲̟͙̤̺̖̠̬̥̤̤͌͊̀̽̓̏̊͋e̷̯̮̣͎͇̙͕̯͂̊̐̿͜ṡ̴̡̛̛̻̖̫̭̪̻̹̭̠̪̳́̃̏͊̓̂̋͛̕͘͜͜͝p̴͓͍͙̜̟͓̳͍̹̗̜͍͌̓͝o̴̧̖̜̫͔͔̓̒͑̄̅͌̌͂̅̾̓͜ö̶̭͚̺́̓͛͗̉̂̈l̵̡̙̹̳̥̮̞͇̽̓͒͋͗̏̒̏͌͘̚ͅͅs̸̯̰̠̝̩͎͔̖͂.̷͙͍̪͖̭̱̪͚̜̿͆̿͐͝_

 

~~~

It ends, or perhaps a part of it starts, like this:

Tony brings a hand up to swipe at the sweat on his face, uncaring of the way he smears Strange’s blood across his forehead.

This time he has an idea he wants to try out with the Benatar’s jump drive.

It’s likely to end in him going up in flames again but, well, it’s not like it’ll be the first time.

Or likely the last.

And again, it’s not like it really matters.

It’s only dying after all.

Tony’s an old hand at that by now.

But for now he has better things to do.

Better things to look after.

Only …

“Peter?”  Tony blinks, brows furrowing for a split second and then arching high in shock and confusion.

Behind him, huddled on the ground, arms wrapped around himself and looking younger and smaller than ever, is Peter.

“Kiddo, you okay?”  Tony takes a few rapid steps across the rocky soil towards the kid, one hand outstretched to clasp him gently by the shoulder.

Because he can’t stand to see Peter upset like this, no matter what Tony knows will happen next.

But then …

_Peter flinches._

Tony freezes, goes stock still, every nerve and synapses frozen for a split second.

In front of him Peter, eyes red and swollen and face blotchy with tears, scrambles back and away.

Like he’s _afraid_.

Like Tony’s a _threat_.

Like Tony used to flinch away from Howard only _so much worse_.

“ _Peter_?”  Tony’s voice is a thin whisper of sound.

“You _killed_ him,” Peter gasps, chest heaving with sobs.  “You just … _Mr. Stark_ … _you killed him_.”

And just like that, between one breath and the next, the part of Tony that had stepped sideways so long ago, snaps abruptly back into place.

“Peter,” Tony rasps even as he takes a stumbling step backwards, “kiddo, I … I’m _sorry_.   _I’m so sorry_.”

And then Tony turns on his heel and does the one thing he hasn't done in years now.

He runs and runs and _runs_.

And all the while he bleeds and bleeds and _bleeds_.

~~~

Standing on the edge of a jagged cliff face, Tony’s mind is a whirling, crashing tsunami of grief and guilt and razor sharp pieces of self hatred all determined to draw blood.

Because ...

What if this was the timeline he could have found the right answers?

What if, somehow, _this_ is the memory of him that Peter could have been forced to carry forever?

Stepping off the edge is easy, simple and clean.

And for the first time in an age Tony hopes that _this_ is not the right timeline at all.

~~~

_Tony respools._

~~~

“How ... many … times?” Tony gasps as he shakes and shakes and _shakes_.  “How ... many times … did I … did I ... _scare him like that_?”

It won’t leave his head, the way Peter had looked at him in those moments.

The equal parts loss and _fear_.

Like Tony was some kind of ...

“He won’t remember, Tony,” Strange tells him, a hand pressed firmly between Tony’s shoulder blades.  “None of them will. I promise you that. Only us.”

“He ... was … so,” Tony can barely find the breath to speak, “he _looked_ …”

“Shh,” Strange soothes him, hands pulling Tony close, uncaring of the still bleeding wound in Tony’s gut as he tucks his face into the hollow of his throat.  “He’ll never look at you like that again. _I swear it_.”

In the distance Tony can hear Peter call his name, worry and affection heavy and obvious in his tone.

For the first time in what feels like an eternity, Tony really and truly _cries_.

~~~

Strange holds him the entire time.

Right up until he and Peter both turn to dust in Tony’s arms.

_Goddamn him._

~~~

_Tony respools._

~~~

“I’m sorry, Peter,” Tony whispers into the kid’s hair, arms wrapped tight around the thin strength of a boy too young and precious for what’s to come.

For what’s already happened.

For what Tony’s already done.

For what he’s been unable to do.

“For what?”  Peter’s voice is muffled against Tony’s shoulder but he still feels the way Peter leans into the embrace.

Open and _trusting_.

“For all of it,” Tony tells him the truth even though he knows that Peter won’t remember it.  Even though he knows he doesn’t really understand. “For not being what you deserve. For getting so lost.  For a million things you never should have seen. For a million things you’ll never see again.”

~~~

_Tony respools._

~~~

It doesn’t feel so much like waking up, the way Tony comes back to his senses.

Instead it feels like finally breaking through to the surface after swimming upwards for an age.

Like taking that first deep breath of air after being submerged for far too long.

And, in some kind of ironic looping mirror, Strange is there to pull him out of the water.

~~~

_Tony respools._

~~~

Somewhere along the way, once he's pieced enough of his composure back together again for it to be possible, Tony starts to talk to Strange.

Really and truly _talk_ to him.

Conversations held in pieces.

Nonsensical to any and everyone who might hear but the two of them.

Tony starts and finishes sentences and thoughts and questions hours, days, lives and deaths apart.

And yet Strange, the man who saw millions upon millions of possible outcomes and then seemingly damned Tony to the hell of living through each and every one, is always there.

Waiting for him.

A touchstone.

A harbor.

A focal point that never wavers.

Not even after all of the things Tony did to him.

Not even after all of the ways Tony _killed him_.

And that means more to Tony than he wants to admit.

Means more to him than he wants it to at all.

~~~

“I wanted a kid, you know?”  Tony tells Strange apropos of nothing.  "Pepper wasn't sold on it but me?  I dreamed about it.  Guess I should be glad it never happened, circumstances being what they are."

“Family ... has never been in the cards for me.  But the way I see it?” Strange smiles, a small upwards curl of one side of his mouth, and nods his head towards where Peter is staring up at a blank faced Nebula.  “You’ve already managed to have a few.”

Tony’s heart _aches_.

For Peter.

For Nebula who both is and isn’t, will be and will never be, the woman he loves like one of his own.

For all of the people who may or may not be waiting for him back on Earth.

And, surprisingly and irritatingly enough, a small part of him aches for _Strange_.

~~~

“I’m tired of dying,” Tony tells Strange.  “I’m tired of dying being all I can do.”

“I know,” Strange answers, sorrow thick and heavy in the lines of his face.  “But I have never seen someone so brave as you.”

~~~

_Tony respools._

~~~

“I’m not brave,” Tony sighs.  “I’m just tired.”

“And yet here you are,” Strange says.  “And I think that’s the best sort of bravery to be found.”

~~~

_Tony respools._

~~~

“It’s not bravery if I didn’t have a choice,” Tony tells him with no small amount of bitterness.

“But you did,” Strange counters.  “You could have lost yourself to the push and pull of time, Tony.”

“I did,” Tony reminds him, the things he’d done sitting thick and heavy in the pit of his stomach.

“But only for a bit,” Strange smiles.  “You came back, in the end. And that’s all that really matters.”

~~~

_Tony respools._

~~~

“I’m tired,” Tony repeats quietly for the hundredth, thousandth, uncountable, counted time.

“Rest,” Strange says.

All Tony can do is _laugh_ , abitten off and bitter sound that isn't really laughter at all.

Because they both know there’s no such thing as rest.

Not here at the beginning and the end of all things and nothing.

Not for Tony.

Not yet.

~~~

Strange shows him magic sometimes.

In that tense and breathless hour before the end.

The others watch them, curious and confused, but Strange never looks away from Tony.

And, after a while, the only thing that can coax Tony to look away from Strange, is Peter.

~~~

Strange shows him simple things.

Colored lights and butterfly mirages.

Swaths of glittering colors that are, for some reason, always done in reds and golds and blues.

~~~

“Are you ever going to tell me what to do?”  Tony whispers. “How to end all of this?”

“You’re already doing it, Tony,” Strange tells him.  “The rest … the rest will come in time.”

When Tony looks up Strange’s eyes are gentle and almost reverent still, but they’re also mostly _sad_.

And then he sighs and fragments into dust.

~~~

Sometimes the magic is more complicated.

Runic circles that glow a familiar, _hated_ , golden orange.

Strange distracts Tony with conversations that last life times about the complexities of the arcane.

Magic has never been something Tony enjoys but the passion in Strange’s face and voice are hard to deny.

~~~

“Was there any other way?”  Tony asks. “Any other way this could’ve gone?  Some other path to victory?”

Strange hesitates long enough for Tony to know the answer.

Long enough to confirm what he’s long suspected was true.

Long enough for that familiar, tired old bitterness to claw its way up his throat.

“Why this then?”  Tony asks sharply.  “If there was another way, then why’d you pick this one?”

“Because that option was not my definition of victory,” Strange tells him, voice calm and even.  “And if you knew it ... well I don’t think it would have been yours either. There was too much ... unacceptable loss.”

~~~

Rarely Strange will do truly ridiculous things with his magic.

Once Strange conjures a hat with a showy flick of a trembling hand.

One of those cliche black top hats complete with a bright blue ribbon.

And then he turns it into a rabbit.

A sweet pink nosed thing with caramel colored fur.

When he hands it to Tony it glows arc reactor blue and wisps away into fireflies.

Beauty from the action that has, for so long now, haunted Tony.

For the first time in so many life times Tony really and truly _smiles_.

~~~

_Tony respools._

~~~

“Tell me about this other path to victory,” Tony requests softly.

There's a pause.

“You died in the end,” Strange admits after a long, charged, moment of silence.

“Not much different than this one then huh?”  Tony can’t help but say.

“ _Don’t_ ,” Strange shakes his head sharply, eyes bright with what seems like fury and _grief_.  “Don’t say that.  It was different, Tony.  Very different.”

“Why?”

“Because in that time,” Strange pauses, swallows hard, “in that ending, you didn’t come back.”

~~~

_Tony respools._

~~~

It takes Tony longer than it probably should for him to realize that at least a part of the unacceptable losses Strange had talked about …

Was _him_.

~~~

 _Huh_.

Well how about that.

~~~

_Tony respools._

~~~

“It’s not magic that I’m banking on to save everything, you know,” Strange tell him, apropos of nothing.  “At least, not entirely.”

“Isn’t it?”  Tony asks, unable to help himself.

Because magic, the arcane, would have been where Tony laid his first guess when it comes to the things Strange must be banking on.

Because, so far, Tony has proven pretty incapable of breaking either of them out of this.

“No,” Strange smiles then as he turns to look at Tony.

His face is creased with something warm and almost …

“What is it then?”  Tony finds that he genuinely wants to know.

Because maybe these kinds of questions, maybe learning Strange the way he has over all this time, maybe all of that is really the answer.

Because whatever it is he’s talking about has put that _smile_ on Strange’s face and Tony wants to know what it is that could possibly fuel that kind of expression.

Has to know.

“It’s the only two things I have any real faith in these days besides the arcane,” Strange tells him, smile curving up higher into a secretive sort of grin.  “Science. And _you_.”

Tony feels his breath catch in his throat.

 _Oh_.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not a _word _about that increased chapter count. We all know how I am by now so just roll with it.__

It starts slow.

Like a star spun hurricane forming on the edges of his horizons.

And then it hits Tony all at once.

A celestial avalanche made up of desert sands, stardust, and truths he can’t avoid.

A slow, steady build that eventually hems him in around the edges like a forest fire he never saw coming.

By the time Tony realizes just how thick the smoke is it’s already too late to run.

Between one breath and the next, between one life and another, everything seems to shift.

Somewhere along the way, ages and infinity between them, Strange stops being the strange sort of distant constant that he’s been for Tony this entire time.

Somewhere between murders and deaths and conversations finished and left undone, Strange becomes _Stephen_.

And somewhere along the way watching Stephen die and turn to dust stops being routine for Tony.

Instead it starts to _hurt_.

~~~

It happens like this:

Tony has the timing down to an art form now.

Knows it on an instinctive level.

But, just before the time comes, for the first time ever, Tony _hesitates_.

Because for the first time ever he has two people he doesn’t want to leave alone here at the end of so much.

Two people that he knows won’t make it out the other side of this.

“Go,” Strange nods his head towards where Peter has just begun to look around, fear and uncertainty clear on his face.  “Be with him. I’ll be here when you get back. Like I always am.”

Tony goes.

Of course he does.

It’s _Peter_.

But, Peter held close to his chest, Tony can’t help but look back towards Strange.

Just once.

Strange stares back at him right up until the very moment he can’t anymore.

~~~

_Tony respools._

~~~

After that moment Tony can’t seem to hold on to even the small bit of distance the name _Strange_ implies.

From that moment forward every time Tony looks at him all he can think is _Stephen_.

~~~

“You said you were banking on science,” Tony says, eyes locked onto _Stephen’s_.  “What kind of science were you talking about?”

The question’s been reverberating in his head for the past few cycles now, like a puzzle just aching to be solved.

“Because I’ve gone through every single plan I could think of, Stephen,” Tony runs a frustrated and bloody hand through his sweat damp hair, “all of them, over and over again.  And let me tell you, science hasn’t gotten me much that’ll help us fix this situation. Pretty sure I can fix the ozone layer and pioneer Earth’s space travel program single-handedly now, which I could have done before but now it’d be _beyond_ easy, but still all of that’s useless unless there’s a way out of _this_.”

“Science and you,” Stephen corrects him.

“What?”  Tony falters for a split second.

He heard Stephen of course, and he remembers exactly what Stephen is talking about.

But a part of him just hadn’t expected Stephen to come right out and say it again.

“I said I was banking on science and _you_ ,” Stephen presses on easily enough, like it’s one of the obvious truths of the universe.  “A combination of two of the most complicated and yet steadfast things I know.”

“Steadfast huh?”  Tony can’t help but laugh just a bit.  “Not sure too many people would agree with you on that one.”

“Wouldn’t they?” Stephen asks seriously, gaze holding Tony’s for a beat too long.

Tony doesn’t actually have an answer to that.

He’s struck silent by the solemn sort of reverence in Stephen’s eyes.

Because even now, even after all this time, after all these unending years and days that stretch on for forever and yet end in a blink, Stephen still looks at him like he had at the beginning.

In that reverent, _awed_ way no one else has _ever_ looked at Tony before.

“You and the laws of the universe,” Stephen whispers then, soft and almost achingly fond.  “Constant and steadfast and influencing everything you touch.”

But there’s something else there as well, living just below the fondness in Stephen’s touch and tone.

Tony recognizes it for what it is.

Guilt and a gnawing sort of sadness.

~~~

_Tony respools._

~~~

Stephen, Tony has learnt in stops and starts, is a more than worthy verbal sparring partner.

His acidic but dry wit is more than a match for Tony’s brand of caustic, bitter sarcasm and defensive irreverence that not even an eternity has managed to completely rip out of him.

It’s almost easy for Tony to lose himself in their flowing conversations, each picking up seamlessly in that golden hour at the start of each new cycle.

So of course Tony doesn’t realize what has happened to him.

Not at first.

He’s spent so long whirling in and out of death, unspooling and respooling, that he doesn’t truly and completely understand this different kind of trouble he’s gotten himself into.

Not until the moment he finds himself raising a hand, repulsor live and flaring, up to his temple yet again.

Only this time it isn’t out of grief or madness or anything of the like.

This time it’s out of _impatience_.

A longing he doesn’t want to quantify.

A curiosity he barely wants to acknowledge but can’t help but try and satisfy.

A sort of intrigue and eagerness he hasn’t felt since …

 _Oh_.

~~~

Tony isn’t sure if it’s real, what he thinks he might be feeling.

Isn’t sure if it’s real and true or yet another way he’s managed to go mad, yet another kind of insanity that’s crept up on him from the shadows of eternity.

He also isn’t sure if he actually wants to know one way or the other.

~~~

Somewhere along the way Tony inhales eternity and bites down on the stardust that _aches_ to be exhaled.

It tastes, Tony can’t help but think with a rueful sort of amusement and more than a bit of self indulgent denial, just a little bit like forgiveness.

_Goddamn it._

~~~

_Tony respools._

~~~

But, here at the end of all things and nothing, here at the edge of the tide pool that is existence, Tony finds that he can only lie to himself for so long.

Eventually everything will catch up to him.

Will crash back down over him like an unavoidable wave.

He’s too busy running in loops, in figure eights, pressing his footsteps into the shore of an infinity that might not even remember the pounding of his gait, to be able to outrun secrets for too long.

At least not the ones he’s trying to keep from himself.

~~~

_Tony respools._

~~~

But, secrets kept or not, wouldn’t that be just like him?

Falling into some kind of brittle, sharp edged sort of love here at the end of the world?

Wouldn’t it be just the kind of terribly beautiful thing Tony would do?

~~~

It is.

_Goddamn him._

It _is_.

~~~

But that doesn’t mean he has to say anything.

Doesn’t mean he has to _act_.

Because Tony can’t see the sense in doing either.

Not when all he’ll likely ever have in the end are stolen hours, fists-full of stardust, and more empty spaces.

And Tony has had enough of living in half measures.

Is tired of existing in snippets-in-between.

This will just be more of the same.

~~~

Stephen knows.

_Goddamn him._

Stephen _knows_.

~~~

“It’s okay,” Stephen tell him, hands gentle as they come up to cup Tony’s cheeks.

“It’s not,” Tony rasps.

Nothing about this, about any of this, is _okay_.

And yet …

Tony can’t help but lean into it when Stephen kisses him this time, soft and _sweet_.

“I forgive you,” the words rips themselves out of Tony’s throat almost against his will, press themselves past his teeth and against the softness of Stephen’s lips in turn.

For all that Tony had been determined not to admit it, for all that he’s been biting it back, it still manages to escape him.

Because he _does_.

Tony forgives Stephen and he hates himself a little bit for it even though he’d always known it was inevitable.

“I forgive you,” Tony repeats softly.

Stephen stiffens, sucks in a sharp breath, and his next kiss is soft and achingly gentle.

“ _Tony_ ,” Stephen’s voice is thick when he pulls back, shaking hands coming up to cup Tony’s face in his palms.

For a long moment all Stephen does is look at him, eyes bright with tears and that same gnawing sort of sadness.

“ _I love you_ ,” Stephen confesses quietly.

Tony feels himself go absolutely still.

“I’ve loved you for so long now,” Stephen admits softly, open and unashamed like his honesty hasn’t gutted Tony just a bit in a way that’s both beautiful and terrible.  “How could I not? I looked out into infinity, searching for a way to stop what was to come, for a way to save what was being threatened, and the one thing the universe saw fit to show me was _you_.”

Stephen smiles then, wry and _loving_ and agonized all at the same time.

“Over and over again.  Cycle after cycle.” Stephen says.  “Ages piling up on top of each other, created and destroyed, whisked away like sand on a shore.  Over fourteen million possible outcomes and every single one of them led me right back to _you_.  I saw you live and die.  Saw how you hated like the raging burn of a thousand stars and how you _loved_ with everything you are.  And, above all else, I saw how you never, _ever_ , stopped.  How you clawed your way back from the edge of madness and then _kept going_.  And Tony?  After that I _never_ stood a chance.”

Tony doesn’t notice the tears on his cheeks until Stephen shakily thumbs them away.

“I always thought medicine, and then magic, were my best destinies,” Stephen whispers as he leans further into Tony’s space until their forehead are pressed together.  This close Tony thinks he can see pinpricks of orange-gold arcane starlight in his gaze. “But now I know that loving you was always what I was meant to do.”

Stephen kisses him again.

Reverent and _loving_.

But, for some reason …

_His kiss still tastes like weeping._

Like psalm and prayer and lamentation all at once.

_Like Judas at the table._

And then Stephen’s hands fall down and away from Tony’s face and he takes a single, _telling_ , step back and away.

And when Tony looks that ever present agony and sadness is there still, still haunting his eyes.

Only now it’s rawer than ever before.

Unbidden, ice traces its way down Tony’s spine.

“I will _never_ forgive myself for all of this,” Stephen tells him, the words a familiar and hated refrain.  “But it was _necessary_ , I swear it to you.  It was all necessary in order to settle us right _here_.  Right in this final iteration, in this correct endgame.”

“ _Stephen_?”  Tony whispers his name, some bastardized version of a plea and a curse, because he can’t really mean what Tony thinks he does.

“Do you remember the only two things I have faith in besides the arcane?” Stephen asks then.

All Tony can bring himself to do is swallow harshly and nod.

“The arcane and the laws of the universe that science has given us overlap in a number of ways,” Stephen says.  “And there’s one truth, one law in particular, that applies to you, to _this_ , to everything that’s happened or will happen.”

“Which one is it?”  The question escapes Tony like a sigh.

He isn’t sure he actually wants to know but by this point Tony doesn’t have the energy or the desire to even try and run from whatever truth is about to be laid out before him.

“There is power to be found in the cycle of life and death,” Stephen tells him.  “Power enough to rival even a Titan. Power enough to push back against infinity and all of its pieces.  It simply has to be properly directed, or carefully _stored_.”

Stephen’s hand comes up to tap gently against the arc reactor that rests against Tony’s sternum.

“The law of conservation of energy,” Tony whispers, breath hitching on what he refuses to believe is a sob as the pieces begin to slot themselves into place, bit by terrible bit.

“Yes,” Step- _Strange_ says.

The word, and all that it implies, rings out between them like a death knell.

Tony’s eyes slip closed for a split second.

He _breathes_.

Something inside of Tony, something fragile and ragged and _young_ , seems to shatter.

Heartbreak really does have a familiar sort of flavor to it by now.

~~~

Tony was a fool to think this would ever end any other way.

~~~

This, Tony learns, is the truth:

All along his fate really has been to _carry_.

Just not in the way he always assumed.

Because for this particular problem there was never a solution he was supposed to find.

There was never a path he was supposed to take.

Tony has been railing against the coming of the night, has been ripping and tearing and bleeding and striving his way through eternity for _nothing_.

Because Tony’s fate was always to live and to _die_.

Over and over again.

Time after time.

Tripping the light fantastic all the way to the edge of madness, to the depths of the abyss, and back again.

All to the tune of Strange’s voice.

All to the tugging of puppet strings that Tony had never been able to see the full scope of.

~~~

Tony’s been a lot of things, both bad and worse, over the course of his life.

This is the first time he’s ever been the _battery_ in the closed circuit of the universe itself.

~~~

In the end the truth is this:

Tony forgave Strange for the wrong thing.

~~~

This is how it ends:

Tony, heart shattered and phantom lungs collapsed from the strain, rips the reactor from his chest.

Head resting on the dead sands of Titan, unseeing eyes turned up towards a now familiar sky and tears hot and wet against his temples, he holds it out to Strange.

Kneeling at his side, face cut deep with lines of grief, Strange takes it with hands that _shake_.

“Tony,” Strange starts to speak.

“Don’t,” Tony cuts him off.  “Just … _don’t_.”

Tony might be strong enough for a lot right now.

But he isn't strong enough for _that_.

Strange’s shoulders bow for a split second before he forces them straight, forces them back with the steely sort of determination that had so engaged Tony before.

Hands suddenly wrap around Tony’s shoulders then and when he blinks his vision back into focus all Tony can see is Peter’s worried face staring back down at him.

He can’t bring himself to smile up at the kid but he’s still thankful that he’s there.

A reminder that, no matter what, no matter how much it _hurts_ , Strange was still right about all of this being worth it.

_Goddamn him._

“I’m sorry,” Strange says then, “for the pain.”

“Life is pain,” Tony cuts back.  “I’m used to it.”

They both know that’s not what Strange meant.

Not what either of them meant.

They both know that they’re talking about something else entirely.

But neither of them mention it.

Strange’s hands light up with that familiar orange-gold light that heralds his use of the arcane.

He brings the reactor down to hover over Tony’s chest.

And then …

 _Agony_.

~~~

Afterwards, when it’s finished, Tony lays on the dead sands of Titan and does his best not to break further than he already has.

And then, hands covered in blood and dust, the arc reactor once again heavy in his chest, all Tony can do is watch as, between one breath and the next, half of the universe unspools.

And, breathing heartbreak and stardust with every exhale, Tony does not unspool with it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _oops ___

**Author's Note:**

> Don't you wanna let me know what you think?
> 
> Also be sure to come scream at me here too:
> 
> https://rayshippouuchiha.tumblr.com/


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